Rain fell like a scene change. I rolled over in my freelance airbed in the empty loungeroom, scaring dust motes with my whoosh. I lay there gaping at the field of that space, smelling smoke, controlling the intake of that dust through my nostrils like a green producer, knowing that I had to get up, and fast, before it stopped. My handbag and portfolio lay by the window, in a world of their own backed by street noise and wind. I rolled up the mattress, stowed my bag and felt for keys in my left hand pocket, all the while listening to that rain, and the occasionele sounds. A bird perhaps. A canary in some twentieth century fox mine. Soft and thudding, like the rubber mallets of streetscapers. Empty of traffic, moon-drenched and amber. Smoky truck-stop rain. Off-screen, a TV bleating football scores into the dim and rain-silenced interior of the saloon. Television rain.
Have your say!